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The book is old and the library is quiet and Steve’s a good reader, contrary to what people might say, but the words just… don’t make sense. Yes, they’re in English, it’s just…
‘What the fuck?’ he mutters, just a tad too loud and the crusty old sentinel of bookville shoots him a dirty look. He’s too overwhelmed to even attempt to smooth it over with one of his trademark Good Guy Harrington charm offensives. He curls his bandaged arm around the page, reads the chunk of text again.
The page is yellow around the edge, it smells musty.
It's bullshit.
Has to be.
Everyone with half a braincell knows the “soulmates” movement is bullshit. It’s a scam, a fucking fairytale pushed upon a new age hungry generation who are dabbling in witchcraft, spirituality and manifestation. All the people he sees talking about it are influencers, for one thing. They’re selling books about how they found their twin flame or whatever the fuck.
It's not fucking real.
Not like… this.
Steve’s bandaged arm has marks underneath it. They appeared just lake week, emerged like red bruises and he was worried at first, because it’s all over his inner forearm. A rash, a breakout, internal fucking bleeding, god only knew what and he was worried until something new eclipsed that wonderfully uncomplicated feeling and replaced it with…
This.
Because the thin, wavy bruises sharpened as they rose up, they became words.
The only one he’s told is his best friend, Robin, and she’s been helpful, supportive and also extremely annoying because she insists it’s the soul mark.
Steve would love to be in denial. He’d love to force a reality into position whereby he fell and crushed his arm into a park bench upon which words were emblazoned and now somehow those words are no showing up in imprint bruises.
But even he’s not that dumb.
She put him in contact with her friend, Chrissy The Medium, who told him it’s a soul mark and that the world is only just now spiritually awakened enough for them to manifest physically. She also recommended a book.
The Science of the Soul.
It was available in the campus library.
So here he is.
Language is humanity’s greatest tool by far and as it has evolved, it becomes the method by which the universe intervenes to grant a new path to the highest union. Words in skin have long been documented but suppressed in historical record by the church. As of the most recent studies performed by the CIA (1969) there is open confirmation of soul marks appearing in skin, particularly the forearm with no scientific explanation. The script that appears is consistently documented to be the first words spoken by the ideal other.
Steve screws his eyes up, drops his head onto the book.
Ideal other, what the fucking fuck?
Beneath the bandages, chaos lurks.
For the first five days of this shitshow, he couldn’t make sense of them at all. They’re not normal words.
You look so good in red, darkness is for the dead
You said it’s not my fault, but I know I made my bed
Like.
What the fuck?
Robin cleverly identified that it’s a poem of some sort due to the rhyming. Chrissy the Medium, however, stared at the words a lot longer than Steve liked and only said, ‘Maybe they’re song lyrics,’ way too casually.
That same night, Robbie took him out to drown his sorrows in the student bar.
And bam.
Fucking BAM.
Some grungy gothy mop headed guy came out, adjusted the mic, made a truly atrocious joke that was bad enough to actually be funny. Steve was barely paying attention, but when the song started and the chorus kicked in over all that heavy, screechy guitar (it’s not his thing) then his whole fucking world turned upside down.
*
It's like this.
They played a killer set.
Smashed the vocals, nobody noticed that scruffy key change before the bridge and Napoleon didn’t lose his drumstick this time, so they made it all the way to the end of the song. A thrilling success.
Eddie Munson’s on cloud nine.
Barely even obsessing about the weird death marks on his arm that his best friend insists are soul marks.
There’s no way.
It’s dumb. He’s not religious.
Not even spiritual.
So yeah, OK, maybe his method of coping isn’t The Best. Scribbling over the red cursive words on his inner forearm to blot them out was not maybe the ideal mechanism, but he doesn’t care.
Killer set.
Classes have been going better.
Shit’s looking up, is what.
‘Hey, great set, right?’ he says to his bandmate Napoleon who he would never dare actually call Napoleon, but damn it’s a cool name in Eddie’s brain. ‘Lee, it was a great set, right?’ he persists when the drummer doesn’t reply. Lee is making out with his girlfriend and their bass player, Ostara. Her licence says Tara, but who is Eddie to judge about people’s names? He’s never once told a single person that he’s actually Theodore. Would proudly die first.
‘Mhm,’ is what he gets from Lee, who bends to pick up his girlfriend and slam her into the wall backstage a little harder and her crystal bracelets are clacking and she’s giggling and calling him her moon boy and Eddie wrinkles his nose, gives up, has seen this play out before.
He goes to get beers. Plural. Just for himself.
He’s getting said beers in the very crowded bar when someone knocks into him. They’re yelling and somebody else is yelling at them, it’s all like, ‘Maybe think this through, babe!’ but no, the human whirlwind is not thinking things through at all because he’s up in Eddie’s face (oh, he’s pretty wow, Jesus fucking Christ, those eyes, the hair, the shape of him, fuck, look at that mouth, he’s so… shit, sorry) and those cheeks are red.
Eddie cowers a little, can’t help it. He’s low key expecting a full-on reality break where this (beautiful, esteemed exquisite, delicious smelling, mouth-wateringly attractive) guy accuses him of something hilariously mundane like fucking his girl.
What’s real stupid is that Eddie’s gay.
“You know what Dad? Peter’s gay. GAAAAY!” That kind of gay. High intensity gay. But also hasn’t had sex in months, so it wouldn’t matter who pretty boy here was accusing him of fucking, Eddie knows he’s innocent.
But he still feels guilty as all out hell.
‘Um?’
‘Steve, let’s go sit and be with our thoughts for a minute, yeah?’ the girl is calmly insisting, all while yanking her friend back by the arm and giving Eddie a would-be friendly smile. ‘Great set, by the way. Killed it.’
Eddie wonders if he’s having a psychotic break or maybe the (luscious, lovely, furious) guy, so called Steve, is. ‘Th-thanks. What’s—?’
‘You are not my soulmate!’ Prince of Beautiful Things loudly declares and then Eddie knows what the phrase “blood turned to water” means because it’s happening.
Happening right now.
Because beneath the blot of a permanent marker (lies, it washes off after a few days) are those exact words.
They bubbled up to the surface last week, a series of complex skinny bruises that became words, exclamation mark and all. And Eddie’s been in a state of blissful ignorance thanks to the marker, but now… well.
This is kind of hard to ignore.
He doesn’t know what to do.
Run, duck, smooth talk his way out of it (first time for everything) or maybe front. Act cool, hardcore. Pretend he knows nothing about this stuff.
He’s maybe leaning towards a variation of the latter when Steve grabs Eddie’s arm, pulls it out and brushes his fingers over the blacked-out mess, seeking something.
Eddie can’t help it.
He (way more gently) reaches out and takes hold of Steve’s arm, pushes up the long sleeve just enough to catch the first few words in bruise font. Sees his own lyrics right there, undeniable.
He drops Steve’s arm, steps back.
Hand over his mouth, he laughs.
‘Well, shit.’
*
They’re drinking in Eddie’s dorm room.
He lucked out, so he tells Steve. Got a single, isn’t sure why. Steve thinks he gets why, though, because the place is trashed.
It’s borderline gross and Eddie’s a slob.
He can’t actually help but tidy a little while Eddie was in the bathroom, had the faucet running the whole time so maybe he’s the stage fright kind.
Steve absolutely tidied up, cleaned.
It’s something he does sometimes, sue him.
And when Eddie came back out, he noticed right away, cheeks going dark red. ‘Um sorry yeah. I was having a real rough… decade.’
They got drunk after.
There’s no other way to have this conversation.
Turns out that Eddie was actually scrubbing the marker off his arm in there. Damp and red from the scrubbing, he shows Steve his own marks.
You are not my soulmate!
Steve can’t fucking believe it.
Shows Eddie his own, which is kinda cute because Eddie’s clearly thrilled to see his own lyrics somewhere else and then when Steve is two shots of jack deep, he asks, ‘What’s the song about?’
They’re sitting on Eddie’s bed when he wipes his mouth, nose-wrinkles like a kitten about to hurl but holds it and answers, ‘Um, y’know. Cool stuff.’
‘What cool stuff?’ Steve touches his arm, the buzz starting to hit, takes the edge off. ‘If I’ve got this on me forever, I’d like to know.’
Eddie sit back on the bed, considers sagely.
‘Well, there’s a lot of themes, y’know? Death, life, the eternal battle between love and justice. Hard choices, big moments, mistakes, heartbreak.’
Steve squints at him, instincts flaring.
‘No, that’s not it.’
Eddie’s eyes widen and then he claps hands over his face, falls all the way back onto the bed. ‘That fucking—so that’s real, then? Soulmates not being able to lie to each other?’
Steve drinks right out the bottle, decorum be fucked. He feels a tad smug, mixing right with playfully suicidal. ‘I mean, you did lie to me. I can just tell. What’s the song about, Munson?’
Eddie groans. His legs are beside Steve, the bed’s a flimsy single and the pillow is something he’s had forever, Steve can tell by how soft it is. ‘OK, but don’t judge me.’
‘I won’t.’
He sighs roughly, groans a little.
Steve waits.
‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer.’
Eddie’s not looking, so he can’t see Steve biting his lips into his mouth, the way he had to at his Dad’s own funeral because for some fucking reason being told not to react a certain way produces some weird fucking ADHD rebellion right where he’s ticklish.
He swallows the smile which would otherwise become a laugh and looks down at his arm, the bruise words slightly fuzzy around the edges, or maybe that’s the drink.
‘Oh, that’s really cool, man. I see it now, for sure.’
His tone betrays him though, because Eddie sits up sharply, eyes narrow. ‘You’re laughing at me.’
‘No, no!’ Steve insists firmly.
Eddie’s jaw drops. ‘Oh my god, you’re lying, I feel it! That is so weird.’
Steve leans on his hand, propped on the knee of crossed legs all just to get his palm over his mouth so the smile doesn’t show. It’s the most unnatural move he’s ever made, and his back is shaking anyway, no point.
Eddie pokes his shoulder. ‘That show was a masterpiece. Fuck Joss, but it was.’
‘I never saw it,’ Steve admits when he comes out from behind his hiding place. ‘But that’s really cool.’
Eddie huffs, sulky as he picks at the bedspread. ‘It’s actually from Angel’s point of view,’ he mutters. ‘He’s a complicated character, despite what people say. I know he doesn’t have the likeable flare of Spike, but I never really got him, and they also completely blurred the lines between “the demon that lives in your body” and “the soul” with him too. The line between Angel and Angelus, like, that was crystal clear, but Spike and William? Same person by season five, it was—’
‘Eddie?’
He looks up, bad mood gone like a cloud. ‘Hmm?’
‘You wanna watch it together?’
*
Season One, Episode Four is playing on Eddie’s laptop as they sit together on his single, finish up the bottle and fall into a soft spoken, whiskey flavoured breath kind of conversation and they’re not talking about Buffy anymore.
They’re touching one another’s arms.
Discussing the whole soulmate thing.
‘No but we should monetise it, right? Become, like, YouTube twats who blog about it and show the whole world that it’s real?’
Steve shrugs, shakes his head. His hair falls to the side, Eddie can smell his shampoo. He wants to bite his hair, suck on it, swirl it around his fucking tongue, gnaw on it like a cat with imprinting issues. ‘There are people like that, but everyone thinks their marks are bullshit. The bruises look too much like Henna, and they say they fade after a few weeks once they’ve met anyway.’
‘OK, but is there a queer version of that? Because we could—shit, fuck.’ Eddie stops dead in his tracks. ‘I don’t even know if you’re queer. Fuck. Fuck. I’m so sorry, man. I didn’t even—?
‘I’m bisexual,’ Steve tells him easily, finger walking up Eddie’s arm and the energy just shifts real fucking abruptly to the point where Eddie feels like he got hit with something heavy, hot and horny. ‘Does that… is that true, about it feeling good when I touch you?’
‘Um.’ Excellent, good job. ‘Feels… nice, yeah.’
Steve stares down at the words, frowning to himself. ‘I’m sorry I got so upset. I didn’t mean it in a bad way. Like. I didn’t mean you can’t possibly be my soulmate.’
‘No, I get it. I went fully into denial after my friend told me what they were and then my very clever solution was to marker pen over it and hope for the best. It’s fucking weird.’
‘Weirder than monsters in Summervale?’
‘Sunnydale, Harrington. Get your shit together.’
Steve snorts, the soft noise dissolving into a giggle and they are stupidly fucking close right now, just achingly, intimately, tantalisingly close and he smells like heaven, like the full rise of perfect bread and that sweetness right before the orgasm hits and the unexpected bliss of disaster averted with no effort.
Eddie’s becoming obsessed with him.
Steve takes a deep, sensory breath that fucks with Eddie’s horny gauge and then he looks up, eyes catching the light of the laptop, which is getting lower and lower down the bed.
‘So, I’m kinda drunk,’ he says and oh, that’s a new tone of voice from the guy Eddie’s known all of six hours, but Jesus fucking Christ, it makes him melt. ‘And you are too, but like.’ Steve clears his throat, Eddie’s tasting the heat that radiates from him. ‘Do you wanna fuck around?’
Yes. Yes, he does. So much. Very much. Forever. Cool? Cool. Amazing. Fuck around time it is.
That’s what he should say.
Instead what he actually says is, ‘I love sloppy sex.’
Steve’s jaw drops again, it’s so fucking cute and also, mmmm, mouth. But he’s kinda smiling around it too and Eddie’s stupid puppy-ass brain is thinking he can’t fuck this up too badly if he made Steve smile.
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah, definitely.’
‘I don’t wanna like, invalidate your consent, at all. We just met and this is intense and we’re both really drunk, I just…’ He bites his lip; those eyes go deep and glassy and yet piercing. ‘I really wanna play with you.’
Play?
PLAY ?!
Oh god.
Oh no.
Eddie’s never gonna let him go.
That’s it.
He knows he made a little squeak but thinks for sure he’s buried it securely beneath a real manly clearing of the old throat. ‘That—yeah, cool. Very cool. We-we can play, if you’re cool with being drunk and… soulmates.’
Steve is slowly inching in, he nudges the laptop to the very end of the bed and Eddie just knows that’s asking for trouble, but he couldn’t care less. He’ll just drop out and marry Steve and they’ll go on talk shows about soulmates or maybe just work in a fucking Target, he doesn’t care.
‘Are you a top?’ he asks Steve, so brave, look at him go. ‘I don’t mind, either way—’
‘You’re lying,’ Steve whispers, fingers brushing Eddie’s bottom lip, light and careful. ‘I feel it.’
Eddie swallows hard. ‘It’s… I like to let people choose.’
Steve’s eyes move between his. ‘What do you like, Eddie?’
‘I don’t know.’
Steve’s mouth curls slightly at the corners. ‘Liar.’
‘I—you tell me what you want first.’
‘I want,’ Steve says, pushing up and nosing against Eddie like a cat, ‘to make you feel so good you cry.’
Oh.
Wow.
God.
Well, OK then, Mister Sexy.
‘C-cry?’
‘In a sexy way.’
‘Right.’ Fuck. ‘I.’ Fuck. ‘That.’ FUCK. ‘Sounds fun?’
‘But y’know, whatever you want,’ Steve whispers, and his lips brush Eddie’s, sends little sparks through his gasoline blood. ‘Soulmate.’
‘This is fucking crazy.’
‘Too crazy?’
‘No. Just. I really want… to not fuck this up.’
‘Me too. But we can just be soulfriends if you like. To start, or whatever.’
‘OK, sure.’ Eddie steadies his breathing. ‘No strings, no pressure?’
‘None. You want me to pretend to be your teacher, like that episode?’
Eddie bluescreens.
‘Uh. S-sorry, what?’
‘You were getting turned on.’
‘By—no, I was not!’
Steve smiles, it’s so fucking beautiful, and he’s drunk, they both are, but he’s fucking mesmerising all the same. ‘I could feel it.’
Eddie groans, sort of whines. ‘Fuck, Steve.’
‘You want me to fuck you, pretty boy?’
‘Ugh.’
‘Want me to sloppy fuck you till your eyes roll back and you can’t take anymore, but you need it too much?’ Steve licks over his mouth. He tastes like whiskey and spit and love—no, shut the fuck up, you twat.
But Eddie’s so hard he’s dizzy with it now, slipping into a warm, fizzy bath of delicious wet things and then he nods like a weirdo.
‘Say yes for me, Eddie.’
‘Yes for me Eddie,’ he trots out, grins despite himself and then Steve is all over him, it’s a fucking kiss, it’s big and messy and it’s how he has always wanted to be kissed, taken, tasted.
‘Fucking can’t get over how good you smell,’ Steve utters into his mouth, tongues curling against one another, mouths wide and hungry, just zero finesse and that’s how it should be. ‘Wanna eat you alive, Munson.’
‘Ngh, do it, fucking love it, please.’
‘Yeah? You want that, baby?’
‘Daddy, please.’
Oh. Oh shit.
Well.
That’s just kinda out there now, no turning—
Steve laughs, all wicked and mean and loving, bites his bottom lip and pulls Eddie on top of him.
‘Daddy’s got you, baby,’ he promises, rubbing Eddie’s cock through his pants, clumsy and too hard and too good, fuck, fuck, fuck. ‘Daddy’s gonna ruin you, is that what you’d like? Say pretty please for me, angel. Wanna hear it.’
Eddie’s head is swimming and he’s so turned on it should be worrying, heart slamming against his ribs, blood on fire. ‘Want you to fuck me up, Daddy,’ he begs, all croaky and not for effect. ‘Fuck, Steve, I never… I always wanted to, but I never got to… t-to have anything like this.’
Steve’s hands glide up and down his ribs under the tee and Eddie can’t stop kissing him, won’t.
‘You’re nervous?’
‘Yeah. I… I think I…’
Stoppppppp.
Stop.
God damn it, cool your motherfucking jets.
Eddie’s cheeks are fresh blood red, but Steve just nods like he gets it, flips them over easily. ‘I never had this either,’ he tells him. ‘Wanna play with you, try new things, no showboating bullshit.’ Eddie’s back is on the bed, pillow gets tossed. ‘Feel like I’ve known you forever.’ He fumbles for lube, good old bedside cabinet drawer comes up trumps. ‘Wanna make you fall apart, baby.’
The kiss is wildly messy, it’s fucking obscene, and Eddie lets Steve fuck his mouth with his tongue, teeth catching on his lip and that little bit of pain blossoms where he’s ripe for it. ‘Daddy.’
Clumsy fingers open him up and there are bite marks around his thighs and Eddie’s got his hands in Steve’s hair and Steve is all like, ‘Pull harder,’ and Eddie’s all like, fucking hell, ok then, and his come is all over Steve’s chest and they haven’t even fucked yet and drunk sex is so amazing, it’s so weird and he knows why he never did it before, he’s not stupid but that reason just… doesn’t exist with Steve.
He trusts him.
He trusts him completely.
Stupid or not, he can’t help but be absorbed by the feeling, wrapped up in it.
Steve’s cock splits him open, nudges deep inside and god, fuck, but he’s big so it takes all Eddie’s breath clean away, leaves him panting and moaning and rolling his hips, slurring, ‘Daddy, fuck me harder, make me feel it, wanna bleed like you’re my first, wanna not be able to walk, want you inside me forever, Daddy, please, ugh, please, fuck!’
And Steve’s drunk too, but oh wow, there’s some skill here for sure all mixed up in the fucking orchestra of expression he’s letting past those pretty red lips and Eddie’s blood is around his mouth and Eddie will absolutely wait until next time to maybe casually drop it in there that he has a vampire kink, but for now he can silently—
‘Bite me, make it bleed, make me all yours,’ he moans like a slut as his cock dribbles between their sweaty bodies and his ass burns around the stretch, insides hungry and greedy, he’s such a bad boy.
Steve’s teeth go right for the good place on his neck, the area of sensitive skin below his ear and it sort of occurs very late to Eddie that they’re not using condoms and they’re drinking each other’s blood which is not especially smart, but it’s a little late because when Steve sucks on the bite he soft screams into Eddie’s skin and then comes inside Eddie so much and so hard he’s sure he can feel it filling him, warm and thick, what does it feel like to get pregnant?
Aaaaand that’s what fucking knocks him over the edge.
Steve’s got his blood around his mouth when he kisses him, greedy for all the noises and he reaches between them, gets Eddie’s come all over his palm and then licks it off, kisses Eddie again, oh, he’s gross and Eddie’s fallen in love just like that.
Not ideal, but like.
Soulfriends.
Soulfriends with benefits.
Steve vanishes while Eddie’s sort of drifting and then he can feel Steve eating him out like a psychopath. How does he have the energy?! Eddie’s groaning, pulling on his hair, comes a third time which has to be actual magic and then Steve’s somewhere else, returns to clean him up and get salve on the bite.
Steve Harrington is boyscouting it while Eddie Munson’s drifting and spent and all floppy and boneless and covered in come, sweat, blood and tears.
Steve cleans him up, drags the quilt over them both. The laptop fell off the bed, or Steve closed it. The room is dark either way.
Eddie’s so fucking in love.
Not like he’s gonna say it or anything, though. He’ll keep it close to his chest, play it smart, make sure it’s real before he—
‘I love you too,’ Steve mutters, sounds sleepy, finally and oh. Great. He said that out loud. Awesome. Oh well. ‘I think you might actually be my soulmate.’
Eddie just nods wisely, already half asleep. ‘Bet on it.’
*
It’s been three months.
The marks faded.
Steve let Eddie put them back, asks for it old school.
Stick and poke, wants it messy, so Eddie does.
Inks him up, whispers things that would make a casual onlooker blush. Eddie lets Steve choose what to put in his arm, the lie bears little meaning anymore.
Because they’re boyfriends.
They have been since that next morning when Eddie brought Steve coffee and bagels and their Very Serious Conversation was interrupted by yet more sloppy sex, Eddie literally let Steve fuck his hangover away.
Steve thinks it’s so funny that every time they tried to talk about it, they ended up getting so turned on they fell into bed.
The pull is ridiculous.
Eddie is amazing.
He’s sweet, caring, nerdy, obsessive, kind, unfalteringly decent and yeah, Steve is sold.
He gets it now.
It’s not some magic spell, not a love potion.
It’s Eddie.
And he maybe wouldn’t have found him otherwise.
So yes, he absolutely wants those dork ass lyrics in his skin for all time. His boyfriend is such an artist, music, drawing, sex. But for Eddie, Steve takes the fresh needle of the stick and poke, puts something else there.
He gives him the Angel tattoo.
Sure, it’s a little wonky and he makes the A into an E with some real creative interpretation, but he knew Eddie would love it, and he does.
They’re the boyfriends who when they start to kiss, people clear out, know the drill. Eddie’s best friend Chrissy is just so very smug when he introduces Steve to her, and it becomes clear that she really is magic and very meddling.
Steve doesn’t care.
They keep it mostly a secret.
It’s more special that way.
The little things that are just for them.
Like feeling Eddie when he’s nearby, the way touch from his soulmate elicits physical bliss. The human lie detector bit (they have a lot of fun with that) and also the fact that after a few weeks, their dreams bleed together.
It’s been three months.
Steve’s all in.
He’ll go wherever Eddie goes after graduation.
But for now, he’s here.
In the bar where they met.
Singing along the loudest of anyone to Eddie’s song.
He’s wearing a Buffy the Vampire Slayer tee that’s Eddie’s and he will run up on stage after and kiss Eddie for the world to see, and then they’ll fuck backstage, and Eddie will call him Daddy and Steve will bite him, and they’ll get yelled at again by Eddie’s bandmates.
But right now, this very moment?
The club is packed, the music is loud, his boyfriend is a fucking rock star, and Steve has never been so sure of anything in his fucking life.
It’s not bullshit.
It’s real.
Who’d have thought?